I couldn’t manage a lotus position,
so I tried you, my bare feet reaching
for the stained ceiling of my apartment
sitar music and stale weed smoke
there with me
like the dwellings
of a million mid-century bohemians
who tried transcendence long
enough to get hungry
when I now try you,
Salamba Sarvangasana,
I get a bit dizzy--spinning
a reaping reminder I have passed
nearly sixty-four years
looking up, at cleaner plaster
I no longer hear the music; the grass is gone,
replaced by fumes perhaps more beguiling
then I fall
never able to pronounce your name
ever aware my feet could not remain
airborne forever